First Impressions
by Coyote Soupus
Summary: "She likes him. He's easily likable, if you can get around the accident-prone curse that seems to follow him and the occasionally idiotic statements that fall out of his mouth whenever he opens it. She doesn't care; she likes him, kind of in the way one might like a rather daft bird that can't comprehend the concept of a glass window." Wheatley/Curiosity if you're so disposed.
1. Chapter 1

_First Impressions_

* * *

She sees him around work occasionally. She always gets a kick out of it when she does; he's always the one bumbling about or carrying on or trying to juggle too many papers in his gangly arms. She doesn't make fun of him behind his back like some, but she doesn't exactly defend him either.

She likes him. He's easily likable, if you can get around the accident-prone curse that seems to follow him and the occasionally (okay, more than occasionally) idiotic statements that fall out of his mouth whenever he opens it. She doesn't care; she likes him, kind of in the way one might like a rather daft bird that can't comprehend the concept of a glass window. Besides, they're in much the same boat: he never stops talking and she never stops asking.

Their colleagues can get annoyed at the both of them for the things that they say. She feels a strange sense of camaraderie with him because of it, which is partly the reason she never stoops to taking cheap shots when he can't hear. Another reason is she'd never think of taking cheap shots, period. It simply would never cross her mind.

They've never actually talked beyond civil exchanges and the occasional awkward observation on the weather from him that she unintentionally and unconsciously shoots down. _That_ never crosses her mind either - a lot of things don't cross her mind, and ironically they tend to be the important things. If told that she should go over and speak to him by his cubicle, she'd stare blankly and ask: _Why?_ 'To be social' is hardly a valid reason. 'Because it's the nice thing to do' isn't either; he's not a charity fund and she respects him enough that she doesn't feel the need to throw him a bone. Unlike most everyone else, she actually _listens_ and about once in a blue moon one of his ideas are genuinely interesting. Then again, near everything interests _her_.

It's on a slow day that they hold their first real conversation, because no one else she knows is about and he's not overly picky about _who_ lends an ear, so long as someone does, even if it's only half of one. Most of the time he doesn't even get that, so he's pleasantly surprised when she gives him the whole of her attention and actually listens instead of making the idle 'hmm' or 'uh-huh's he's grown accustomed to.

She makes good points too, asking him why he thinks Aperture is secretly hoarding Asian elephants in the basement and to what extent, _do you think_, they're willing to go to keep their elephant fetish a secret. Where do they get the feed for the elephants? Where do the caretakers stow themselves? How _many_ elephants, anyways? The questions are nearly endless. He would have thought she was having him on if she didn't look so genuinely _curious_.

By the end of the thirty-minute lunch break he's gesturing animatedly and she's half-leaning across the table, her eyebrows raised because she's _delighted_ that he takes all her questions in stride and actually seems to like them. Her colleagues are looking at her funny because_ isn't that the moron_ and _why is she talking to him?_ The one time someone tries to approach her to generously liberate her from his company they get harshly shot down in her unconscious manner, like she doesn't even _realize_ she's doing it, and they decide she doesn't need their help anyways, she's fine.

They're genuinely curious though, and later in the labs she gets more than one thinly veiled inquiry on the topic of _that scatterbrained man_, which is entirely their choice of words.

For once she sees directly through the well-placed words, and an indigence rises in her on his behalf, although she's never minded or even _noticed_ before how her colleagues disdain him. She does well to conceal it, playing dumb, although she rather enjoys sending their elected messenger away with their metaphorical tail between their legs. They won't think much of it; she has, after all, done this sort of social faux pas before, but little do they know that this time it's purely intentional. She plays her part well and hides her smile behind her clipboard.

The next time she sees him, she's walking at a clipped pace through the cubicles towards the labs on the complete other side of Aperture and there isn't opportunity for chitchat. She does, however, give him a small smile as she recognizes him, and he's too bewildered to return it until her white coat has whipped out of sight.

If he turns around in his chair to watch her go, no one comments.

* * *

_The author implores the reader to consider the apocalyptic power of the protagonists if they chose to combine their capacities for vocalization. The author does not think the world would be able to withstand the barrage. The author trembles at what she has done. _

_**What has she done.** _


	2. Chapter 2

_Part II_

* * *

She's begun to associate him with the color of the sky and the smell of herbal tea. Glasses, too, and short blond hair in disarray all are him in her mind. Not round glasses though; black, rectangular, _modern_ glasses are his sort of style. He's always in some form of rumpled undress, like he honestly couldn't pay enough attention to get dressed properly in the mornings.

Everything about him, even the idiocy, is endearing to her. She can never take him seriously, which she knows irks him to some extent. But she's never unkind, not on _purpose_, and she feels like he understands the problem of saying things you don't mean without thinking first. He does it, too, although it never visibly bothers her as much as it does him.

He's so easy to influence, too - a few words here and there and he's strutting about like a pigeon with its feathers fluffed. She doesn't need to say much to get him going, because he still can't quite believe that there's someone out there who isn't leading him on (at least he hopes she isn't) and he's unsure as to how long this fascination will last, so he intends to make the best of it. A little unhealthy, sure, but Wheatley can't bring himself to care because she actually _listens_, and it's wonderful.

At this point he doesn't doubt she could make him jump through hoops if she wanted, which only makes it all the better when she doesn't. Most people who listen to him tend to want something from him, but she's got no rhyme or reason and she sticks around, he thinks, because he's willing to put up with her if she does the same to him.

After a few weeks and after they're what could be considered friends (a development that surprised both parties), she's much more comfortable with him now and she asks a lot more questions than she did when they started. He, too, doesn't feel like he has to think so much before he says something because he doesn't really fear being judged anymore, not by _her_. She's possibly the least judgmental person he knows and she can take any topic he throws at her in stride.

It's nice, this mutual friendship thing. Wheatley thinks he could get used to this.

* * *

_-Wheatley- _

"Why are people so stupid, Wheatley?"

He nearly chokes on his water because he hadn't heard her come up beside him, and he struggles to swallow the liquid before he spits it up all over his front. It burns as it goes down the wrong pipe and he splutters and coughs for a few minutes, eyes watering. The fear of actually dying here, in this moment, passes across his mind before he manages to drag in a ragged breath, then another, and the coughing subsides until he's left with slightly rough breathing and embarrassment sufficient to fill several bathtubs.

"Sorry, what?" is his intelligent response.

She purses her lips, folding her arms around her ribs. She isn't happy; that is her 'I am not happy as of this moment' stance and he can recognize it a mile away at this point. She doesn't employ it often but when she does it's always for a good reason. She repeats her question.

He begins to panic. Is this a segue into the topic of his own stupidity? Has she finally grown tired of him? What had he done wrong?

"Oh, well." Wheatley flounders. "There are, uh, a-a number of reasons why people could be..._ less intelligent,_ than others. Um... Education! That's one, yes, a bad education growing up. And laziness, you know, not studying in school and the like." He fiddles with his hands as he speaks, nearly sweating under his collar because a part of him knew this sort of thing was inevitable, it always happens at one point or another, but it's too soon, isn't it? It feels too soon to him. "Oh, also, _trauma_, possibly. Or some sort of brain damage or - or..."

His voice dwindles as the feeling of _giving up_ overwhelms him. He can't delay this forever by chattering on, although a very large part of him desperately wants to.

He grimaces in an uneasy attempt at a smile, and his voice is small. "Just who are we talking about, here?"

"No one. Everyone. I don't know, people in general." She grimaces, oblivious, as always, to his discomfort, to his mixed relief and irk. "We had a particularly... _special_ test subject in today. He didn't comprehend the concept of _putting the cube on the button_." She places a hand over her face like she can see the man before her now and she's extremely embarrassed on his behalf. "He kept on standing on the button and waiting until the doors opened before rushing for it..."

"...Oh." Wheatley feels some of his panic subside. The topic hasn't shifted to him yet, anyways. "Didn't you give him hints? You're allowed to do that, aren't you? Hint-giving?"

"We _spelled it out_ for him without explicitly stating it, which would of course render the test a moot point, but he didn't feel inclined to listen. He opposes positions of authority, apparently, kept on shouting up at us that he would do it his way and 'break the system'."

"So what happened?"

"Oh, no, it's still going on, but it's at a stalemate. I was there for two hours before I managed to get transferred to a different track." There's a small smile on her face now, although it's a slightly rueful thing. Wheatley scoffs a laugh despite himself, and she sighs tiredly. "I left feeling greatly discouraged about the collective intelligence of the human race, thus, my question to you."

"That's understandable. Some people just don't have common sense," he says, some feeling of superiority empowering him because even _he_ could follow the simple direction of 'put cube on button'. "There are some who've got it, you know, and some who don't. It's unfortunate but it's true." He pauses, the original reason for his paranoia washing over him again, and he asks timidly, "But... just for the record, okay, so I know where I stand - or where _you_ think I stand, I mean, because _I_ know where I stand, obviously, but I was just wondering - um, have _I_ got it?"

"Have you got what?" She furrows her brow at him, his question sailing right over her head. _Blimey, can she be oblivious_. It still boggles him that smart people can be so dumb at times. Because she _is_ smart: there's a reason she works in the labs and wears a white coat with one of those fancy laminated IDs pinned to it.

"You know..." He wets his lips quickly out of nervous habit. "D'you think I've got the stuff? I mean, I know I'm not always the sharpest tool in the shed, but I'd like to think that I'm, er, _passably_ clever. At least. I-I mean-" He's bumbling now, and he knows it, but he can't stop. "I don't want to sound presumptuous, but I know I could figure out that test track, and I think that maybe I'd be a decent test subject, too, if it, uh, ever came to that - not that I'm asking to be a subject!" Wheatley adds hastily as she opens her mouth. "No, that is quite possibly the last - well, _one_ of the last - in the _general category_ of things that I do not want, and it's pretty high on the list. Being a test subject. Which is not desired. In any way. I'll stop now." And he bites down on the inside of his cheek to do so, knowing that he'll talk forever if he lets himself.

"You're asking if I think you're smart." He winces; why couldn't _he_ have phrased it like that? She continues to look at him like she's genuinely confused, and he's starting to be confused too, because he thought it was a pretty simple question the way she said it. "I don't understand," she says blankly. "Why does my opinion matter to you?"

He blinks once, twice, clears his throat, and mulls over the question. "I, _well_." He scratches at the back of his head, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. "I care what other people think," he says finally, his voice quiet.

"You shouldn't. It's not healthy." Again with the deadpan expression, like not caring is the simplest thing in the world. And for her, it probably is, but Wheatley is not Cadence and he cares too much. And worries too much. And generally _thinks_ too much. "You're over-thinking it," she voices his thoughts, pressing a thumb sideways to the center of his forehead and leaning closer to smile kindly. "Yes, Wheatley, you're not the smartest person I know." His expression falls, but she forces him to keep looking at her, her eyes infinitely patient. "But being too smart is detrimental; it can often lead to psychotic episodes and a lack of empathy or understanding between the geniuses and the common folk. Being too smart causes wars, Wheatley. People die because they're too smart, or other people are too smart, or too dumb. There's no happy medium. You, however, are just the right combination for me."

"For you?" he asks, frowning. She nods sagely.

"Everyone's got a preference. Some people like to surround themselves with people as smart as them, so they feel like equals, or people they feel are less smart than them, so they can feel superior."

"Which are you?" He dares to ask the question, finding himself afraid of the answer.

"The former, of course." She smiles again and casually leans backwards. "You try too hard, Wheatley, but that's what makes you great. Other people can laugh, but the people worth knowing never will."

Wheatley is quiet for a few moments, absorbing this burst of spontaneous wisdom, before looking back up at her and blinking owlishly. "Blimey, you're a genius," he remarks, eyes wide in awe, and she actually looks embarrassed.

"No, I'm not." Cadence shrugs his comment away. "I just ask questions."

It's only when he's sitting back in his cubicle with his fingers poised over the keyboard that he realizes she had answered his question in a roundabout way. _The former, of course_.

She considers them as equals.

Them. As equals. Cadence and Wheatley. Little, bumbling, insignificant Wheatley, is smart. To her, at least - and in the end, that is enough.

For the rest of the week he has a distinct bounce in his step, and his entire face aches with the smile that hasn't left it for a second.

* * *

_Very light, very happy. Actually kind of fluffy, in retrospect. Don't worry. I'll fix it soon. _


End file.
